


Every Ending Is A New Beginning (Normally)

by LadyMerlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And I've gotten a head start, Angst, F/M, I basically flailed for four hours on tumblr, I'm sorry (not sorry), It is only hinted at in the proceedings, John doesn't know what we do, Mary/John is the primary pairing, Season 3, Spoilers, Spoilers also for John Watson's Blog, This fic is angsty and this is a warning, This is going to slay us, This is in response to the Trailer Fiasco of the 8th of December 2013 (yesterday), and then got the fuck off my arse and wrote this, especially the interactive ones, please note that Sherlock/John doesn't take place in this fic, set just prior to the beginning of season 3, sherlock bbc - Freeform, so please go in knowing this, spoilers for ALL the trailers so far
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's been recovering from the Fall for two years, and Mary's been by his side for every step of the way. He loved Sherlock, but he loves Mary too, and still it's difficult to let go of the past. But there has to be a breaking point, and while some people need explosions and fireworks, John's breaking point comes in a silent office, when he realizes that it's as simple as making the choice to live.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>You can love Ghosts, but they'll never love you back.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Ending Is A New Beginning (Normally)

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I'm warning for SPOILERS for Sherlock BBC Season 3 - in whatever shape or form we have received them (trailers, pictures, John's blog posts - this is an all-encompassing spoiler warning). 
> 
> Also, I don't want any Mary Bashing. John's been through enough. In my book, Mary's gold until she's proven otherwise. I'm walking in with this assumption, and I'm sorry if it bothers you. I ship Johnlock too, but I won't have a single word against her. She doesn't deserve it either.
> 
> The first three lines of this fic come from John's Blog post [here](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/26april) and the part of the scene portrayed comes from the 8th of December 2013 Trailer.

_He deduced that the victim had faked his own death._

_I said at the time that it wasn't very likely. In fact, I think I said it was impossible. And he told me that it might be improbable but nothing's impossible._

_I wish I still believed that_ …

John paused and waited, watching the cursor blink patiently for him to gather his thoughts. It’s a good thing it was a machine, because he knew it was going to wait for a long time.

The door creaked open and he could smell her before he saw her. She was wearing the same perfume she’d been wearing for years, a half bottle she’d inherited from her mother. It was older than a woman her age would normally wear, but John loved it as much as she did. Mary smelled like home, and comfort, and love.

“I’m heading out with the girls from the front desk, John, are you coming?” she asked, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“I’ll sit this one out, thanks.”

She paused, hands stuffed in her pockets, smiling at him from the doorway. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” he said, but before he’d even finished, she’d reached him and was kissing him, like it meant nothing. Mary was so good to him. Her affection was plentiful, and honest. She’d been generous with her touches and her kisses and her hugs when he’d needed them, and now that he wasn’t hurting so bad, he appreciated them for the precious commodity that they were; generous, selfless comfort was rare, and he’d been so lucky. He’d been so damaged, and he’d been so lucky that Mary had been there to save him.

When she’d left, he turned to watch the blinking cursor again.

There were so many things he wanted to say, that needed to be said, but the person who needed to hear them would never be around again. They called it closure in the right circles, and they said it was necessary to move on, but what were people supposed to do when there would be no closure ever again? Speaking to a tombstone had done nothing but cause more pain, because he could only think of the last proper conversation he’d had with his best friend. It wasn’t something he was proud of, and unfortunately unlike with all the other fights they’d had, he’d never had a chance to apologise for his words. That was what had kept him down for the first year.

The second year had been mostly mourning Sherlock, and his life with Sherlock. It had been adventure and excitement, with guns and explosions like Afghanistan, but more _James Bond_. He’d loved it. It had been fantastic - a fantastic distraction from his return to boring London, a boring limp and a boring half-way house. It had been mourning late night alley-way chases and take-away boxes overflowing from the bins underneath their back window. It had been mourning for the adrenaline rush and the racing hearts and the battles of wit waged against arseholes at the Yard and late night pints with Lestrade while they waited for Sherlock to finish sniffing (and occasionally, licking) the crime-scene. It had been mourning for lost sleep and thousand pound violin performances interrupted by the wailing baby next door, and Mrs. Hudson screaming about burnt wallpaper and gunshots at three in the morning and Sherlock somehow botching up cereal. God. That second year had been more painful, in some ways, than the first.

And Mary had been there for him, all the way through. Steady and patient and understanding, so wonderfully understanding. She’d been funny and sweet and kind and she’d not pushed him. She’d put up with a lot more bullshit from him than she’d deserved, and she’d done nothing but soldier through it. She’d never once flinched from the fact that he’d _loved_ Sherlock Holmes, and that they’d been so fucked up it took him a year and a half to be able to say it aloud. She never once hid the fact that she’d grown to love him long before he’d managed to get his head out of his arse enough to love her back. She was an _angel_ , and he’d treated her like she was some common thing.

And he loved her, but he loved Sherlock too. He didn’t even know how to handle it. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to love one person, let alone two, let alone at the same time, when one of them was _dead_.

He glared at the cursor, wishing it had the answers to give him. It blinked at him, and in the split second between two flashes, he had an epiphany, a realisation. He was out of his chair before he knew what he was doing. His coat was on one arm and not on the other, and he bent over the keyboard and smacked _Enter_ with one slightly more adept finger (he was a surgeon, not a blogger, thanks), posting his innermost thoughts for the world to see. He was done. Done with that entry, with that chapter of his life. Sherlock had owned his heart and his soul, and he hadn’t even known it. Even if he had, John wasn’t sure he’d have known what to do with it. He’d been patient, and loved from a distance, scared of being burned by Sherlock’s brilliance. It had never happened, and he’d regretted that most of all.

But life was short, and Sherlock was proof of that. Every day brought something unexpected, whether he liked it or not. Mary had been one of the things he’d expected. A pleasant surprise. A fucking _awesome_ surprise. And he loved Sherlock but he was _dead_ and John was so angry at him for that, for leaving him alone, but it was never going to change. He wasn’t coming back. Not even Sherlock could defeat death. Not even for John. And Mary was there. And she loved him. And he loved her.

While struggling into the other sleeve, he picked up his phone and typed a quick message to Mary.

_Hey Mary, can I still catch up with you for drinks? I’ve decided I’m done moping for the evening. I’d much rather spend it with you. JW_

The reply was instantaneous.

_Of course, John! We’re still near the front of the hospital. Sherry’s gone back in to fetch her coat so you have five minutes while she flirts with Alex. It’ll be good to have you. xxx M_

He grinned, and it hurt on his face, because it had been such a long time since he’d smiled, it felt like he was out of practice. He felt like an idiot. He wanted to send back kisses to her on the phone, like a bloody teenager. He bet she’d get a laugh out of it, so he did. For the first time, he sent her kisses via text, and he felt so ridiculously happy, like he could swell up and float away with it.

He was still sad about Sherlock, of course, but he wasn’t _just_ sad. He was also happy, and elated, and in _love_ , and devastated, that Sherlock wasn’t there to share this with him. But he was allowed to be everything at once. No one mattered but Mary, now. She’d not judge him for it. She hadn’t done so far. He’d see how far he could push his luck.

He grinned, and left, the computer still on, the cursor blinking on a new entry, silent. Responses to the previous entry popped up, and were ignored. John had better things to do than to live in the past. 


End file.
